


attic salt

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Grantaire, M/M, University Student Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 06:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14636055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: The first time the barista behind the counter gets his name wrong, Enjolras assumes it is a mistake. He really ought to have known better.





	attic salt

**Author's Note:**

> From a Tumblr prompt: “You’re my jerk barista who purposely screws up my name when I order my caffeine fix.”

The first time the barista behind the counter gets his name wrong, Enjolras assumes it is a mistake.

This is a perfectly natural reaction, of course – it’s not the easiest name in the world to get right, and The Lonely Record Café is always busy at this time of day – it’s not as if the guy running the counter has the strength and energy to remember everyone. To go as far as learning how to spell _Enjolras_ – well, that would just be silly. He doesn’t expect that of people who are just trying to do their job. It would be counter to his entire ethos – Enjolras isn’t famous for giving people a hard time, not unless they deserve it.

Of course, that’s the first time it happens – the first of anything is bound to be more forgivable than the next. It’s only when it continues – and really, with Enjolras’ schedule as regular as it is, do they really have an excuse? – that Enjolras starts to have his suspicions. By the eighth cup, he’s absolutely certain: this guy is fucking with him. He has to be.

Luckily for both of them, he’s also kind of hot. Not that that stops Enjolras being annoyed with him, but still. Hot.

Somehow, today’s is even worse than usual. Enjolras holds his breath (and, possibly, his expression) as the barista cries out over the hubbub, wafting the polystyrene mug around like it’s the very last resource on the planet. Enjolras’ isn’t entirely certain that the guy’s manager doesn’t pay him exclusively in coffee beans. He’s probably the most energetic man Enjolras has ever met.

“Jolrae? Do I have a Jolrae somewhere round here?”

Yeah, he’s definitely fucking with him. When his eyes alight on Enjolras, they’re absolutely brimming with mirth. Enjolras raises his eyebrows at him.

“Enjolras,” he says, his face deadpan. They’ve been having this conversation for eight days straight. “My name is Enjolras.”

The man flaps a hand at him, handing him his coffee with the most practised of shrugs. His face is a mess of wiry stubble and half-faded acne scars, but it’s the light in his eyes that distracts Enjolras the most. They’re what betray him and his happiness – well, that and the giant smirk he’s offering Enjolras, hands spread wide as part of his mock apology. It’s like he’s daring Enjolras to say something – something other than the usual debate, something that will bring the entire queue to a grinding halt.

Enjolras doesn’t. He knows better than that. He offers the barista a thin-lipped smile that says more than it doesn’t (not, of course, that he’s ever been aware of that) and leaves quickly, overhead bell chiming behind him. Next time. He knows how to catch these kinds of people out. He’s had a lot of practice over the years. There’s no way this one isn’t the same as the rest.

*

It’s not like Enjolras to change his schedule. The whole house could have burnt down and Enjolras would still be leaving it, on his way to university, at 6:45. Nothing has ever fazed him, and Enjolras is never late. Every minute change in his timetable is obvious. So, naturally, Combeferre notices when he doesn’t.

“Aren’t you heading in?” he asks, poking his head into the sitting room. Enjolras is sat on the couch reading a book, cross-legged and calm as a monk, which is so unusual for Enjolras that Combeferre has to blink several times before looking at him again. But no – Enjolras is calm, and that can only mean he’s prepping himself for a verbal fight. A quick case of rhetoric and resolution. Combeferre steps fully into the sitting room. Enjolras puts his book down, but his hand is still on the open page.

“I’m heading in later,” he says absently, looking at Combeferre once before picking up his book again. “I have – I have a book to finish.” It’s a mess, like all of Enjolras’ books – dog-eared, half-torn in places where it definitely shouldn’t be, the cover curling over itself like a well-trained pet. Even from his vantage point, Combeferre can see it’s filled with lines of highlighter and biro. It makes him feel nauseous just to look at it.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I don’t have a lecture until lunch.”

Well, it’s not as if Combeferre can do anything about this anyway. He swings his satchel onto his shoulder and wonders what on Earth this mystery person has done to get Enjolras so riled up. “OK,” he says, as Enjolras pointedly turns another page. It’s a copy of _The Fellowship_ , for God’s sake. Combeferre hates his friend sometimes. “See you later.”

*

Enjolras is certain his plan is foolproof, this time. He won’t be able to hold up the line if there aren’t any customers. If he orders coffee after the rush hour, everything will go great. He’ll spell his name out on the chalkboard behind the counter if he has to. Anything to avoid that damming smile. Enjolras likes to be right. Being outsmarted is one of the worst possible prospects as far as he’s concerned. To be snubbed is to be flayed alive. It’s as obvious as believing in democracy – he’s never thought to expect anything different, and that definitely isn’t going to change today. Almost certainly, at any rate. For sure.

The café is actually empty when he goes in, which is nice. What’s less nice is that the guy behind the counter was clearly anticipating this, because he’s not wearing his apron or, seemingly, any item of uniform at all. His jeans are covered in ochre dust. His hair is ridiculously out of control. And, what’s more, Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone chalking up a mural with such intensity. Half of the café’s giant chalkboard menu is covered in vivid swirls of pink and blue, pale oranges and yellows. It ought to look terrible, but somehow it doesn’t. Somehow, it actually looks kind of like a piece of art. Well, go figure. At least it explains the lack of uniform.

It does not, however, explain the collar bones, sharp against the barista’s pale skin, only half-hidden by the sweeping v-neck of his t-shirt. It doesn’t explain that at all. Enjolras considers this to be hideously unfair.

He stops to pretend to consider the cakes piled up in their curving glass dishes a little way along the counter, not quite daring to interrupt, not quite wanting to look up and find that wretched smile looking back. It’s a terrible smile. Enjolras absolutely loathes it.

“Hey, can I help you?”

He jumps and turns to face the main counter. The barista – and, apparently, resident artist – is looking at him with what appears to be mild concern – it’s quite possible nobody is supposed to stare at cakes with a glazed expression for that long. He checks behind him. The café is pretty much empty. He and the barista are practically the only ones here. He doesn’t know why that makes him feel so stupidly nervous. He’s only after a question, after all. A question and an answer.

“Yeah, uh,” He fumbles for his wallet. It’s still where he left it, in the back left pocket of his trousers. He could quite easily just order a coffee and leave. If only collar bones hadn’t been a part of the equation. If only.

He might as well ask. This is a good coffee shop, but he can easily find another. Probably. It should be easy to change his name and run away to another university, another province. He has the grades. Biting down on his resolve, Enjolras opens his mouth before his brain can tell him otherwise, and gets out, “Why do you, uh, keep getting my name wrong on the coffee cup? It is on purpose?”

The man looks… decidedly perplexed. Oh, well. That’s only fair. He probably thinks Enjolras is being ridiculous. He’s probably not even aware that Enjolras is the same _person_. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, now that he thinks about it. He should just go home. He needs to start preparing his deed of change of name, and maybe a new hairstyle. He’s always wanted to go collar-length, he thinks absently. It’s a pipe dream of his.

The barista, however, is turning an interesting shade of crimson. He runs a hand along the loose hairs at the back of his neck and, yeah, there’s no way this guy doesn’t know what he’s doing to Enjolras every time he tugs at the neck of that t-shirt. There’s just no way.

“I don’t—sorry,” the man says, like he’s admitting to some terrible scandal, like maybe the murder of Feuilly’s favourite house cat, the one with the fluffy brown ears, “I didn’t think – have I upset you? I wasn’t, uh, trying to do that, I promise, I—”

“So it _was_ on purpose,” Enjolras says. He’s a simple man. He just wants some clarification.

“I—yeah?”

“Why?”

The man gives him the usual; an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. It’s not normally awkward, but there’s a loss of bravado there today that Enjolras thinks he is probably responsible for. OK, fuck it, he’s definitely responsible, but what else was he supposed to do? He might as well get to the bottom of this linguistic mystery. It’s in the name of science.

Joly would be proud of that joke, he thinks absently, watching as the man across the counter twists his fingers together, trying to come up with a satisfactory solution. Enjolras is pretty sure there isn’t one. Enjolras is fairly certain that this guy purely likes fucking with people, because what kind of chalkboard artist doesn’t? It’s written all over his face – this is a guy who likes making jokes, except—

“Thought you might have noticed,” he says quietly, and his face is sombre and serious. “I, uh, I put my number on it. Round the other side.”

Enjolras frowns. He still has yesterday’s coffee cup in his bag. Trying not to think about how weird it looks, he fishes it out of his rucksack and turns it between his fingers. Sure enough, there’s a number on the other side.

“Did you – have you been doing this every day?”

The barista gives him a look that is strangely reassuring. “Not at first,” he says. “At first I was just messing with you, but uh, you’re kind of cute, so—?”

Enjolras is glad for the cut-off sentence. It gives him chance to say, however weakly, “Was this your idea of a covert date?” He’s still kind of caught up on ‘cute.’

“Sort of? Yeah. Yeah, a covert asking-out. I have like, the ultimate coffee shop discount card, so.”

Enjolras smiles at him. The barista, however tentative, smiles back. “Do you actually know my name?” The tentative smile broadens into the lucrative.

“Of course I do. It’s Enjolras. I’m Grantaire,” he adds, pointing to his folded-up apron, which, yeah, has had his name tag on for the entire time and somehow Enjolras hasn’t noticed a thing. He’s terrible at this. Grantaire’s smile is more terrible still.

“Ultimate coffee shop discount, huh?”

Grantaire’s grin reaches right up to his eyes. He’s cute when he’s flustered. Enjolras thinks he might be able to forgive the entire linguistic debacle if he gets to kiss those too-bitten lips. The collar bones, too, will require further examination. But first—

“Coffee,” he says to Grantaire with conviction. “I need a coffee. When does your shift finish?”

Grantaire shakes his head at him. There’s even chalk in his hair. “I finish at four,” he says, his large grin now a smaller, private smile, somehow entirely reminiscent of the mural on the wall. “Say, have you ever heard of a triple espresso?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos. :)


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